


Thousand

by earthtoalley



Series: 30 Days of Writing [6]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:13:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthtoalley/pseuds/earthtoalley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She is as tortured by her nightmares as Will Graham is, not that the two of them would ever really know that. And she would never admit it to anyone besides herself and perhaps Dr. Bloom, but sometimes she wondered just how many of the dead girls she sat with would still be alive if her father had just killed her instead."</p>
<p>Drabble for the 30 Days of Writing meme. Prompt 6: Thousand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thousand

**Author's Note:**

> I can't write for Abigail Hobbs, so I apologise in advance. I asked someone to pick a character for me and they gave me her. Ugh.

Abigail Hobbs sat at the centre of a ring of dead girls, their clothes stained with blood and torn in places. From a distance, you could have mistaken them for sisters, the eight of them all so similar. It was only when you got closer that you noticed how varied their features were. There were still traces of Abigail in each one, however; her eyes, her nose, the shape of her jaw. But for the most part, they all seem the same.

Abigail had forgotten how many times she had had this dream, though she was certain it must be somewhere in the low thousands. She is as tortured by her nightmares as Will Graham is, not that the two of them would ever really know that. And she would never admit it to anyone besides herself and perhaps Dr. Bloom, but sometimes she wondered just how many of the dead girls she sat with would still be alive if her father had just killed her instead.

The girls all looked at her, their stares harsh and unforgiving. It was her fault, after all. Whatever she had done to make her father hate her so much was the reason they were dead.

Abigail looked down at her feet. She had had this dream so many times now she could practically hear the dead girls’ voices already. She could hear them voicing what she already knew, what the psychiatrists were trying to convince her the opposite of; it should have been her. The longer she waited, the louder their accusations grew until finally, the ring of dead girls began to speak, their tones as cold and accusing as their stares.

The cacophony of blurred voices grew and grew. Abigail could feel the noise pounding in her head like some kind of grotesque heart, pumping their venomous words through her system, spreading like ice through her veins.

And still the volume grew. She was certain the decibel count must have been in the low thousands, at least, because it shook through her in a booming crescendo and made her head feel like it was going to implode. She clutched at her head in pain, trying to block out the sound as it got louder still.

And then everything was silent. Something was different. Usually she had woken up by now, short of breath and dripping with sweat. But as she cautiously opened her eyes, her hands falling back into place in her lap, she saw she was still sat at the head of the circle of chairs. The ring of dead girls was missing, though. Abigail glanced around furtively, wondering if perhaps for once she would sleep soundly through the night instead of jolting awake from a nightmare every few hours.

And then she saw  _him_. He was sat opposite her, quite calmly, studying her face the way an architect studies his design. Nicholas Boyle’s face was exactly as she remembered it being after she had stabbed him. After she had murdered him, and truly it had been murder because of all the parts she and Dr. Lecter had  _wasted_.

Abigail cast her attention back to Nicholas Boyle’s face, his skin deathly pale. He looked cold. Empty. His hair was wild and unruly, and the cut on his forehead still looked angry despite his pallid complexion. She expected him to yell. She expected him to mutter the same sentiment the ring of dead girls had. But instead he cocked his head to one side a little, smiling almost sweetly at her, the words spilling over his lips softly.

“He should have killed you, so that you wouldn’t have killed me.”


End file.
